


every little thing she does is magic

by santiagone



Category: Archie Comics, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, here it is: the obligatory bedsharing au, should i say you're welcome or i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-31 12:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10899774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santiagone/pseuds/santiagone
Summary: “Juggy,” says Betty, a little nervously, chewing at her lip and determinedly fixing her gaze on anything except him. “There's only one bed.”And that's how it starts.





	1. before

**Author's Note:**

> why am i so full of cliches? no one knows. nevertheless, here i am, with another fic for these two. normally i'm horrendous with multichapters, but the next one is almost finished so hopefully there won't be a huge gap for the second part. so here it is; the obligatory bedsharing trope every deserving ship needs.

_i've tried before to tell her_  
_of the feelings i have for her in my heart_  
_every time that i come near her_  
_i just lose my nerve as i've done from the start_

_every little thing she does is magic — **sleeping at last** _

 

“Juggy,” says Betty, a little nervously, chewing at her lip and determinedly fixing her gaze on anything except him. “There's only one bed.”

And that's how it starts.

Well. Maybe that's not _strictly_ true. Maybe it started twelve and a half years ago, when a little girl and her redheaded companion befriended a tiny boy in the playground of the local kindergarten. Maybe it started four years ago, when Ginger Lopez dragged Archie along to her party, who dragged Betty along, who dragged Jughead along, who ended up playing an ill-fated game of spin the bottle and realising that Betty Cooper was not as bad of a kisser as he'd been expecting.(In fact, she hadn't been bad at all.) Or maybe, it started a week ago, on a penultimate Thursday afternoon, when a blonde-haired girl smiled and a beanie-clad boy gave in instantly.

.

.

.

 

_ONE WEEK AGO_

It's Friday. The dreaded day—for Jughead, at least. Fridays are extracurricular days, which means Archie has football practice, and Betty has cheerleading with Veronica, and even if Jughead _is_ desperate enough to seek companionship with Kevin—which he's not, because he's exclusive and elusive and not looking to be intrusive—he can't, because Kevin always disappears on Fridays afternoons for some weekly mysterious date that Betty and Veronica won't stop asking about.

So, Fridays. The dreaded day. But maybe Fridays aren't _so_ bad, because Betty always sticks around the Blue and Gold for an extra half an hour than usual while she waits for Cheryl to call in the River Vixens, and it's not that Jughead _enjoys_ spending more time with Betty—but he does, a little bit, a little more than he’ll admit.

“I think I found a lead,” says Betty on this particular Friday. It's raining outside, and she’s already dressed in her cheerleading outfit, and he wants to say something like _maybe you should call off practice today, you’ll catch your death in this weather_ , except he can't because a) it's not like rain would have stopped Betty Cooper anyway, and b) it's not like rain would have suddenly turned Cheryl Blossom into a sympathetic, understanding person.

“A lead,” he echoes, shaking himself out of his thoughts.

Betty nods, a determined smile making its way across her features, and sits down on the couch right next to him. Their knees brush, but he isn't even sure if she notices.

“The night Jason died, my dad wasn't home.”

Jughead shakes his head. “We already covered this, you said he was away at some conference.”

“Right,” Betty confirms, eyes gleaming in that way she gets when she's uncovered something important. He sits up straighter. “Except I did a little digging, and there _was_ no journalism conference in Greendale on the Fourth of July. Or in the month of July, period.”

“So he's hiding something.”

“Something big,” says Betty. “My dad went all the way to Greendale for a reason. It has to be important. And it might be a long shot, but it's our _only_ shot.”

“You want to go to Greendale,” Jughead realises. “You want to investigate the crime scene itself. Betty, that's a five hour drive.”

She smiles at him, a little sheepishly, a little frayed at the ages. He can see how much she needs this, and how much she’ll never admit it. He's always known Betty was brave, but to investigate a felony that you think your parents might have committed? That's another level, entirely.

He reaches out, touches her reassuringly on the knee. “I hope you're a good driver.”

Her resulting smile is so bright that Jughead’s torn between scrambling for some sunglasses and taking a perfect snapshot of this moment forever. Or better yet, writing it into his novel. He wants to say something, preferably something intelligent, maybe a little playful if he's feeling _really_ risky, but all he does is retract his hand and avert his eyes.

“Crimson Peak’s probably going to chew your head off if you don't move quickly.”

Betty's eyes widen, and she leaps off the couch. “I'm late for practice! Thanks, Jug.” And before he can do or say or even _think_ anything, she reaches over and kisses him on the cheek. “I'll talk to you later.”

And then she's gone, and Jughead is left grinning down at his lap, and it's just like every other Friday. (And, maybe, Fridays aren't so bad at all.)

 

.

.

.

 

_PRESENT TIME_

Jughead stares at the bed, the double bed (singular, as in there’s only _one_ ), and he stares at it again, and he pauses.

“I can sleep in the chair,” he says easily, and Betty frowns at him—which, okay, he should have anticipated by now.

“I made you drive all the way here because I was too panicked about what we would find here,” she says. “You at least deserve a bed. You probably have cricks in your back.”

“Last I heard, I wasn't an old man, Betty,” Jughead points out, unable to stop his small smirk. Although, a fair case might be made for old _soul_ . And his back does hurt a little bit. But that's entirely irrelevant, and contrary to his point. “The chair’s fine. And before you suggest it, I'm not letting _you_ take the chair. My mom would kill me. Actually, I think _JB_ would kill me.”

“Jellybean has always had exceptional taste,” Betty concedes, light-heartedness creeping into her tone. “Right. Okay, then. So… we can just share the bed, then.”

“Share the bed,” Jughead echoes. His eyebrows raise half a fraction.

Betty’s cheeks look a little pinker than usual, if he's not imagining it. She pats the bed covers, somewhat awkwardly, and shrugs.

“Yeah. I mean—we used to do this all the time.”

“Yeah,” Jughead agrees, “but admittedly, that was when we were eight, and it was still socially acceptable.”

“Since when do you care about being social?” Betty asks. Her cheeks are definitely pinker, he's decided. The flush might have spread to the tips of her ears, too.

“You _do_ have a point there.”

“I always do,” says Betty with a smug little smile. “Look, we’re responsible, right? We’re friends. And neither of us is going to let the other sleep in that chair, so it looks like this is the best option.”

Jughead thinks about sharing a bed with Betty. _Betty_ , who he grew up with, with her blonde hair and her blue eyes, and a different smile reserved for everyone. His throat’s gone a little dry, which is _absurd_. It's just Betty.

“Looks like it is,” he says, and sets down his bag.

 

.

.

.

 

It's a little weird, sharing a room with Betty, seeing all their stuff laid out side by side next to each other. Their toothbrushes notched in the same holder, coats hung up in the same place, shoes lined up together. A little weird. But not _bad_.

“You know, I’ve only been to Greendale three times before,” says Betty. Jughead glances over at her. She's lying on her stomach on the bed, nose buried in a local map, surrounded by piles of research and brochure logs.

Jughead’s fingers pause on his keyboard. “Well, you're beating me.”  

Betty looks up at him over her map. “You’ve never been to Greendale before?”

He smiles at her, a little bitterly. “The Jones’ aren't exactly big on family holidays.”

“Right,” says Betty, and she looks so _sad_ for him in that instant that he regrets having said anything in the first place. Bullying, he can deal with. Judgement. Even _pity_ , on a good day. But one sympathetic look from Betty Cooper? That's another story entirely.

“What are you looking for?” he asks instead, and Betty turns to sigh at her map, nose crinkling as she tilts it this way and that.

“Supposedly, my dad’s conference was held at 34 Picket Drive. The official records say it's a B&B, but I’m not finding anything on this stupid map.”

“Google Maps?” he suggests, and she pulls a face.

“Do you think Nancy Drew had access to Google when she solved all her mysteries? Did the Scooby Gang carry the latest Apple products around with them?”

Jughead can't help it. He laughs. “I appreciate your authenticity.”

“Well, there's also the fact that we have no reception,” Betty admits. “Hey, can you come help me? I think I'm starting to go cross-eyed.”

Jughead rolls his eyes. Before he can properly think things over, he joins her on the bed. She pushes the map over, and he blinks at it for a few moments, before his finger goes to point at a particular spot.

“There. Picket Drive.”

“You’re a miracle worker, Jug,” Betty exclaims, and he turns to smile at her as she whips out a marker and begins to plot a route. She inches closer to reach the edge of the map, shoulders bumping his arm in the process, and he realises how close she is. Close enough that he can make out the mile tucked behind her hair, close enough that he can tell she wears green apple shampoo.

“Hey,” says Betty, shaking him out of his trance, “since Greendale is new to you, how about we go out for dinner? Polly and I found this little diner with the _best_ onion rings during our last visit here.”

As if on cue, Jughead’s stomach rumbles, and Betty snorts a little in laughter.

“The way to a man’s heart,” she quips.

Well, Jughead considers, she's not _wrong_.

 

.

.

.

 

According to Betty’s memory, the diner isn't far away, so they walk. Him with his hands dug into his pockets, her with her perky ponytail—he wonders if they look like an odd pair. Duo. Team. _Whatever_. Stereotypically, loners like him shouldn't like cheerleaders like her. It doesn't fit in with the narrative.

But someone's clearly skewed up this story, because he thinks she looks _good_ when she's happy, hands gesturing, mouth tilted upwards, eyes bright. The world is officially on it's right axis when Elizabeth Cooper is happy. Or at least, _Jughead’s_ world.

“Do you remember fourth grade? When I made you dress up as Ned Nickerson for Midge Klump’s birthday party?”

Jughead grins. “ _My_ favourite is third grade Halloween. You as Dorothy, me as the Tin Man, Archie as the Lion?”

“Vegas was Toto,” Betty recalls, eyes lit in delight. “You were such a cute Tin Man.”

“Because every teenager wants to be known as cute,” Jughead says wryly.

“I do,” insists Betty indignantly.

She's kidding. He knows that. But the words slip out anyway.

“Okay then, Betty Cooper, you're very cute. Now, are we talking Pop’s-level fries or just above average fries at this so-called diner?”

The tips of his ears might be turning a bit pink, but she's smiling down at the pavement, so he's calling it a win.

“Nothing beats Pop’s. But this is a pretty close second,” she says, and increases her pace a little. “Come on.”

 

.

.

.

 

Betty was right—the diner _did_ serve delectable food, and they return back to the hotel room feeling happily satisfied. He flops on the bed as soon as they get in, and Betty stands by the door, watching him with an amused smile.

“Are you finally full?”

“Do you really want the answer to that?” he asks, eyebrows raising, and she laughs, reaching into her pocket to check her phone.

“It's Veronica,” she says apologetically.

Jughead waves at her. “Answer it. I'll get ready for bed.”

He slips into the bathroom, glances at himself in the mirror, and removes his beanie. It's only then that it hits him. _Get ready for bed._ Bed… with Betty. Adorable, girl next door Betty Cooper, with her sweet stubbornness and her blue eyes. _Archie’s_ Betty. Betty’s Archie. It's been that way since they were kids, and he'd accepted that he'd eventually be the weird godfather to a bunch of strawberry blonde children. But now, he's realising… Betty hasn't mentioned Archie all day. And maybe it's infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things, but it feels like _something_.

“...with Jughead,” comes Betty’s faint voice. “No. I don't know. Not everything in life is a rom-com, V.”

Jughead gets changed, stuffs his clothes into his bag, and leaves the bathroom. Betty smiles at him when she spots him.

“Okay. Uh-huh. Bye, Ronnie.” Betty cups the speaker with one hand and holds the phone out. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Me?” Jughead blinks. Him and Veronica have never exactly been very close. They’ve always had Betty or Archie as buffers between them. Besides, wrong-footed guys and Daddy’s girls don't really mix. Then again, he doesn't think either of them fit into those moulds anymore. He accepts the phone.

“Hey… Veronica,” he says awkwardly. Betty rolls her eyes at him and then disappears into the bathroom. After a moment, he hears the shower start up.

“Jess Mariano,” Veronica greets. “How's our girl?”

“Fine. Determined to get to the bottom of all this.”

“Well, that's Betty,” says Veronica, a touch softer. Jughead sinks down on the couch and fights a small smile, just in the off-chance that Veronica can somehow detect it over the phone and pick it apart.

“Sure is.”

“So,” says Veronica after a moment, “I hear you two are sharing a bed.”

“Oh, _wow_ ,” says Jughead, the characteristic annoyance spilling in before he can stop it. “Look, Veronica, it's a bed, and it was this or she'd cast herself onto the floor. It's exactly the same as if you and Betty were sharing it.”

“Yeah,” says Veronica with a knowing lilt. “Except I'm not _half_ as in love with Betty as you are.”

He falls silent. He fixes his gaze firmly on a loose piece of thread hanging from Betty’s coat jacket. He's a little afraid of speaking, maybe because his throat has gone dry.

“Oh,” says Veronica again, after a moment. “I was half joking, but I’m guessing that silence means…”

“Don't say anything to her,” he interrupts.

“I—of _course_ , Jughead. But don't you think that you should—”

Jughead panics. He ends the call, and stares at the phone for a little while. Eventually, Betty pokes her head around the bathroom door, a fluffy white towel curled around her damp hair.

“What did Veronica say?”

“Some very unsettling truths,” he mutters, and veers sharply off into a different topic.

 

.

.

.

 

It's a bed. It's a bed, and a dear friend, and it doesn't mean anything. It's like a little mantra, saved up just for him, and it's stupid, and degrading, and portrays him as just like every other abstract teenager in this cliche world, but it's there. It's happening. Betty Cooper is crawling under the covers right next to him.

She smells very clean, like standardised complimentary hotel shampoo and sprinkled vanilla fragments, and she's wearing a singlet and some shorts, and they both curl up on opposite sides of the bed, as far away as possible.

But he's got long limbs, and eyes that are too observant, and she's too _close_ . There's something strangely intimate about sharing a bed with someone. Or maybe, it's just sharing a bed with _Betty_ that does the trick.

She tucks her hands under her cheek and blinks at him, a little nervously.

“Hey,” she whispers, “is this weird?”

“Nah,” he says, because it's _not_ , strangely enough. It's new, and a little awkward, like new shoes you haven't broken in yet, but it's _nice_ . Soft, in a way he might get used to. Betty's sweet, and clean, and he's already half in love with her. It could be _much_ worse.

“Good,” she says, and smiles at him, a little lopsidedly from the angle of her head. “Night, Juggy.”

“Night, Betts.”

He reaches over and turns out the light.


	2. after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wakes up to warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was going to be updated next saturday --- but i got a burst of inspiration and suddenly finished it!

_a knight in shining armour never did nothing for nobody._  
_he never fought._  
 _a knight in dented, scraped armour, now that's what you want._

_**renate stoller** , nancy drew: the captive curse_

 

He wakes up to warmth. There's the initial warmth from natural daylight as it seeps through the curtains, of course, which is nice, _common_ . Then, Jughead wakes up a little more and registers the _extra_ warmth.

Somehow, during the night, Betty has crept over from her side of the bed and into his. And somehow, his arm has found a way to drape comfortingly around her shoulders, one finger slipping under the band of her singlet. And on an even further somehow, Betty has curled into his chest, head tucked under his chin, hands falling over his waist, hair tickling at his nose.

She's warm, and she smells nice, and she's very soft and kind of perfect and it's a _disaster_ . She's right there, and it's tempting, so tempting, to do something utterly stupid like kiss her, or even worse, talk about his feelings. He can't. He _can't_ . But he can't jerk away either, else she’ll wake up and they’ll both be embarrassed, and Veronica Lodge will be proven _right_ , which he cannot abide.

So he loosens his grip, makes it so that she can slip away easy when she needs to, and falls back to sleep.

 

.

.

.

 

When Jughead wakes up again, Betty’s sitting upright, studying him carefully with an expression he can't decipher.

“Hey,” he says sleepily, and she breaks out into a pretty flush, gaze dancing away quickly.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Did you sleep okay?”

“Considering I've been homeless, this was practically a five star resort,” he says with levity, and firmly decides not to mention just _how_ well he'd slept. There are still a _few_ scraps of his pride that haven't been stolen by Betty, after all.

“Not funny,” she says, lips pulling into a small frown.

“Sorry,” he says with an unapologetic grin, and doesn't miss the way her eyes follow his hand as he reaches it up to run through his hair.

“You know, you look—” she starts, and Jughead has never despised anything more than the timing of the knock on their door.

“Betts? You expecting anyone?”

“Room service!” Betty remembers, and leaps out of bed. She catches one glimpse of herself in the mirror, pauses, and snatches the nearest thing to pull over her head. Which happens to be Jughead’s shirt.

“Thank you,” he can hear her murmur to the staff, and within moments she's returning with a tray laden with pancakes—a sight that would make Jughead’s mouth water on any other day, but he's still recovering a little by the fact that she's stolen his shirt, and wearing it, along with her bed-mussed hair and the smile playing at her mouth.

“You like pancakes, right?” He raises his eyebrows, and she laughs, passing him a fork. “Stupid question. Are you ready for some sleuthing?”

“I'm always ready, Nancy Drew,” Jughead says, mouthful of pancake. It's his favourite reference pertaining to Betty, just because of the delight that flashes across her face. “But are you? If we find something about your dad that's potentially incriminating…”

“I can handle it,” she says, a little tightly.

“I know you can,” he amends, “but you shouldn't have to. At least, not alone.”

Betty's expression has suddenly gone soft, for some strange reason, in a way that makes his stomach squirm. “I won't be alone, Juggy.”

He cracks a smile at her then, and her cheeks turn a little pink when she fixes her gaze determinedly back on her pancakes.

 

.

.

.

 

So as it turns out, 34 Picket Drive is _not_ a darling Bed and Breakfast, but a sinister looking abandoned house, crumbling at the edges and glowering menacingly.

“Why do I get the feeling that we’ve walked into every horror movie ever?” Jughead mutters dubiously.

“Well, I'm positive we found the right place,” Betty says, fingers turning white around the edges of the map, nails tearing through the paper.

“Hey,” says Jughead, and reaches out to uncurl a hand and slides it into his. He squeezes it gently. “We don't have to do this right now.”

Betty shakes her head. “No, it needs to be now. I need to know the truth.” Her fingers flex in between his, and she glances at him. “Are you…”

“I'm with you every step of the way,” he confirms, and the tension in her shoulders seems to seep away a little.

“Okay,” she says, grappling in her pocket with her free hand. He has to bite his lip hard not to smile when she pulls out the tiny torch attached to her key chain. “Then let's go.”

 

.

.

.

 

It's weirdly _damp_ inside, littered with rotting furniture and dirty stain glass windows. The door hadn't taken much jostling, which is a first indicator that something's really wrong, and although Jughead opts not to worry Betty with it, he thinks she's probably already noticed.  

Her face is determinedly pale, lips parted slightly as she sweeps her torch around.  

“What could my dad possibly be doing here?” she murmurs.

“We don't know the full story,” he points out. It's a little off putting, being the voice of optimism when he's spent his whole life building to be the complete _opposite_ of that, but Betty needs it, so he'll be it.

“I'm not sure what we’re even supposed to be looking for,” Betty admits, sweeping the light of her torch around the room. “Let’s split up.”

“No,” Jughead says impulsively, and Betty blinks curiously at him. He forces himself to be a little more calm, fingers creeping into his jacket pockets. “Haven't you ever watched a horror movie? Splitting up means a surefire death.”

“Only for one of us,” she says. At his sceptical look, she takes several steps forward and squeezes his arm. “We’re not in a horror movie, Jug. Just shout if you need me, and I'll come running, I swear.” She presses a kiss to his cheek, a brief flare of warmth, before picking her way into the next room before Jughead can find the right words to express himself.

It's so unfair, because she's misinterpreted everything. For example, when has Jughead ever been worried for _himself_ ? He doesn't like splitting up. He's an introverted creature at heart, he likes his space, but there's something unsettling about _not_ seeing a flash of gold every time he turns his head. It's disconcerting.

Jughead creeps forward, pulling out his phone to use as a flashlight, absently wondering about the emotions Betty must be going through right now. Apprehension? Fear? Hope? Granted, they’re all things he's familiar with, but—

There's a yelp, and a large crash. Jughead’s heart jumps into his throat, and his phone slips out of his hands. He's moving before he knows it.

“ _Betty_?”

Round the corner, Betty’s sitting in a pile of what looks to be decaying staircase, debris in her hair and dust smeared across her face. She looks okay, but he's by her side in a few strides just to make sure, kneeling down next to her.

“Hey. You okay?”

“The staircase collapsed,” Betty says absent-mindedly, and he feels a brief flash of white hot anger translates from worry.

“ _God_ , Betty, you need to be careful.”

“Look, it doesn't matter,” Betty interrupts, while his brain is screaming _it does, it_ does _matter!_ “The staircase revealed the truth. My dad’s _innocent_ , Jug.”

“Okay,” Jughead inhales a little shakily, “now would be the right time to escape to the Mystery Machine.”

 

.

.

.

 

“Are you mad at me?”

They're back in their room. Betty's perched on the bed, and Jughead’s pulled up the chair. He's dabbing gently at the various cuts and splinters on Betty’s hands and trying to avoid her wide eyes.

“No,” he says shortly.

“Really? ‘Cause it feels like it.” Betty pulls her hands out of his grip, staring at him reproachfully. “Juggy.”

Jughead relents, finally feeling something viselike start to unclench from around his heart. “We shouldn’t have split up. I don't _like_ splitting up.”

“I was only a room over,” Betty assures him, eyes wide in earnest. “I’d have been there in a second if you needed me.”

“Betty,” Jughead sighs, eyes fixing on the duvet, “when have I ever been concerned for _myself_?”

Betty's silent for a moment, but he can feel that _stupid_ concerned gaze of hers that he can't help but like.

“Hey, Jug?” she asks finally. Her voice is soft, sweet in melody. Not assuming, just curious. It kind of makes her next words sound worse. “Why didn't you move away? This morning? In bed?”

Jughead grimaces, immediately feeling foolish. He should have known Betty was awake, nothing in Jughead’s life goes as it's supposed to. He can't look at her. If he looks at her, he’ll tell her, and he can't tell her, he _really_ can't tell her.

“Lets not talk about this right now,” he mutters, reaching for her hand and the antiseptic bottle.

“No, I want to talk about this right now,” Betty insists.

“Well, I don't.”

“Juggy!” Her fingers wrap around his wrist. She doesn't seem to care that she's still got scrapes and splinters right along her palm, and he can still feel her studying him meticulously. She takes a small, hesitant breath. “Juggy, do you like me? And I don't mean in a _Present Betty, who likes-Archie-platonically_ kind of way, but in a _head-over-heels-for Archie, Fourth Grade Betty_ kind of way.”

Something _resonates_ during that ramble, and Jughead's hand slackens in Betty’s grip, eyebrows furrowing.

“You don't like Archie anymore?”

“Jughead!” Betty huffs exasperatedly, and he finally looks up at her, and her unfairly blue eyes, and he _blows_ it. Dramatically.

“Of _course_ I do,” he blurts out, equally exasperated, and — she's kissing him. Her mouth is pressed firmly against his, like she knows exactly what she wants, and it takes him a few moments of recovery to push back into it, his mouth moving hesitantly against hers. Her fingers curl up into his neck, leaving a trailblazer wherever she touches, and he jerks away a few inches, gasping in between.

“Betty,” he manages, “your hands. Splinters.”

“Don't care,” she says, and closes the gap again, and truly—who is he to complain? She's warm, and she's a much better kisser than he remembers her being from that ill-fated spin the bottle game, and he only has a brief moment to wonder (a little in jealousy) about where she learned it from before he's lost in it.

She's pressing in closer, almost slipping from the bed and onto his lap, and his hands bunch her shirt, curling into his waist. Slowly, finally, their kisses turn less frenzied and more lazy, drawn out, until eventually she’s pulling away, lips swollen, and his brain is racing a million miles per second to catch up.

“Well,” Betty mumbles, a little hazily, her eyes closed, “you're about as romantic as a pair of handcuffs.”

Jughead can't help the soft smile that breaks out across his face. He's afraid that it won't ever go away. His fingers curl gently around the nape of her neck.

“ _The Big Sleep_ ,” he says, “1953.”

She cracks open an eye then, beams at him in a way that lets him know he got the answer right.

“Just to clarify,” Betty says, “You _do_ like me, right?”

Jughead groans, but it's in good taste. “Betty, I can honestly say that I have never kissed anybody else like that. Nor would I ever want to.”

“Oh.” She's flushing, lips still pulled in that shy smile. “Okay. Good.”

He raises his eyebrows. “ _Good_?”

“It's supposed to say _I like you too_ , Watson. Symbolism, or something. Simple deduction,” says Betty with a laugh and a roll of her eyes.

 _I like you too_ , he can't stop hearing, over and over, like that Pink Floyd record of JB’s that he pretends to hate but secretly likes.

“I'm starting to think I need a bit more than symbolism, Betts,” he admits.

“How's this?” Betty leans forward, rests her fingers under his chin and kisses him again, soft, and sweet, and God, he will _never_ get used to that.

"That'll do," he manages, and she grins.

“Thus, with a kiss, I die,” quips Betty, and Jughead rolls his eyes fondly, his fingers coming to curl around her hands.

“Okay, Juliet, are you ever going to stop making references after we kiss?”

“No,” says Betty. She's smiling widely. “I plan on doing it for a very, very long time.”

(Funnily enough, he's okay with that.)

 

.

.

.

 

_BONUS_

 

“Juggy,” says Betty, “there's only one bed.” But she's not nervous this time. She's grinning.

Jughead can't help but smile right back at her. “Oh, no,” he says wryly, “ _whatever_ will we do.”

And Betty laughs, and takes his hand, and they fall onto the bed together. Just like that.


End file.
